A Family Issue- Chapter 1
by Byronofsidius
Summary: Rocco Zippeti and Vincent Paglia, long-time henchmen for the Joker, help take the boss away from Arkham after he blows the joint. But on their way back to their new hideout, where Harley waits, the Clown Prince of Crime has a stop to make...
1. Chapter 1

Rocco and Vince sat huddled in the front of their rented SUV, listening to the game on the satellite radio, cheering like a couple of regular hometown goobers as their boys lit up the scoreboard with a pick-6 interception return for a touchdown.

"Frickin' amazing! Dat Jackson kid's a god," Rocco exclaimed. Rocco Zipetti was a jovial fellow, portly but not to the point of morbidity, with a smooth, wide baby face that made people smile to be around him. Cheerful and boisterous, he made fast friends, and possessed a sense of loyalty and duty that rivaled that of any soldier. Dressed as usual in a rumpled old gray suit and bow tie, he brushed crumbs from a muffin off his dingy white button shirt with one chubby hand.

"He's had one hell of a year," Vincent Paglia replied. Vince was to Rocco a polar opposite in physical frame, a tall, angular man with shiny greased back hair, a rounded stud in each ear, and the kind of severe face usually associated with knife fighters and drug dealers in comic books. He had the sallow complexion of a long-time drug addict, which he had once been until a few years earlier. He too wore a plain suit, though his was black. A styrofoam cup of coffee hung just below his mouth in one long-fingered hand. "Kid's got what, nine interceptions on the year now?"

"Somethin' like that," Rocco said. He quickly checked his wristwatch, sat up. "Time's comin'." He started the vehicle's engine, looking out of the driver's side window at the forboding structure in the middle distance, looming like a black cathedral dedicated to shadow worship. There was a sudden blast, the night sky lit with roaring flames and burning debris. "Well shit," Rocco grumbled. "I thought Jimmy said the explosives were low-yield."

"Jimmy's a moron," Vince said quietly. "Probably a crispy one now. Hey," he said, peering into the back seat. "Boss's suit in that box?"

"Yeah," Rocco said. On the radio, Metropolis University had just completed a twenty-eight yard pass, gashing Gotham U's secondary. "Jesus, this's been a good one. Radio tuned to the game in the boss's car?"

"I don't know," Vince replied. "And I didn't wanna try putzin' around wit' all those dials and buttons. Knowing my luck, I'd hit an eject button and hit the roof."

"Fair enough," Rocco said, watching the nearby woods for signs of their boss. He rooted around in his suit coat for a minute, pulling out his cell phone. "Worse comes to worse, I'll pull it up on my radio app." He tucked the phone away again, then clapped his hands and pointed to the woods. "There he is!"

Running at a swift clip toward them was a pale man with ratty green hair and bleached skin, his teeth prominently displayed in a nearly permanent smile. He looked like a clown, but for the orange inmate pants and tattered straight jacket, the last buckles of which he was currently shrugging out of. By the time the Joker got to the SUV, he was able to toss the jacket aside and haul himself inside.

Rocco didn't bother with pleasantries right away; as someone who'd been working with Mr. J for a little over a decade on and off, he'd become familiar with the laughing lunatic's rhythm. Without looking back, he just said, "Suit's in the box, Mr. J."

"Ah, well-prepared, I see," the madman replied, opening the box and shimmying out of his Arkam-issued orange pants and pullover. Rocco took a glimpse in the rearview mirror, wincing as always at the myriad scars covering the Joker's bleach-white skin like a latticework. One of the new ones, still bright pink and puffy, stood out just over his left hip. "You know what they say, Rocco, the clothes make the man." Joker pulled on his purple trousers, his pale yellow button shirt and purple jacket. His green string tie came next, though Rocco could see his hands were trembling.

"Vince, get the boss's tie," Rocco said, carefully navigating them out onto a main thoroughfare minutes from the asylum. The scrawny hoodlum turned around and crawled over the seat into te back, the Joker grumbling to himself unintelligibly as Vince did up his tie. When he was finished, he went to lean back, but Joker slapped him upside the back of his head.

"Get back up front you ninny," the Joker snapped. "I want to stretch out! Now, doggy, there's a good boy, hehehehehehaaa!" Vince clambered back up front as Rocco drew to a stop at a red light. "What are we listening to," Joker asked casually.

"College ball, boss," Rocco said. "Gotham U versus Metropolis. We're up 28 to 17 right now."

"Hmm. No scanner?"

"It's a rental dump. Harley didn't want to waste what little money we've got for this breakout."

"Since when does she worry about the budget," Joker asked, stretching out in the back seat.

"Since we let Bobby go," Vince replied. "Hey, turn two blocks down, I'm friggin' starving. You want anything from Wendy's, boss?"

"Hold that thought, Vincent. Why did you let Bobby go? He was brilliant with the books," Joker said, taking a bottle of water from the bag of goodies Rocco had stashed in the back. He drank deep and sighed.

"Well, Harley let him go," Rocco said, his voice hesitant, nervous. "There was an incident."

"What kind of incident," Joker asked. Rocco told him the details, at which point the smiling lunatic, now scowling, sat up in the back like a ramrod.

"Skip the food," he barked. "Take me to his apartment."

Bobby Henshaw lounged in his La-Z-Boy leather recliner with the game on, watching the Gotham U boys rip Metropolis's defensive line apart, their back goring them for 8 and 9 yard carries down after down. It was a good game. His hairy back was starting to cling to the seat, so he adjusted just before the knock came at his door.

"This'd better be good," said the muscular thug, swigging down the last of his beer. The apartment wasn't much, but he enjoyed having the spare scratch to not have to work. Pulling jobs for the Joker had been lucrative, and after getting canned, he'd found more work as hired muscle for the Riddler. Nigma ran quiet jobs mostly now, profitable without drawing down the Bat. Bobby liked that.

He walked toward the door as another knock rang out. "Keep your shirt on, jeez!" He hauled open the door, immediately regretting not looking through the peephole or grabbing his gun. Rocco Zippeti and Vincent Paglia stood there, flanking the Clown Prince of Crime. "Uh, Mr. J," he choked. The Joker wasn't smiling; he was, in fact, possessed of the kind of thunderous scowl he usually showed when he was furious enough to approach something akin to sanity. With a shout the Joker launched one finely polished wingtip shoe up into Bobby's crotch, dropping him like a sack of grain.

"Pick him up," Joker said, stepping over Bobby and sauntering into the apartment. Bobby groaned, trying to cup his aching balls as the two thugs dragged him back inside and kicked the door shut. They deposited him on the floor by his coffee table, looming over him as they waited for Joker to come back into the squalid little living room.

"Yeesh, you bring women back here on dates, Bobby," Vince asked with a sour grin. "Place screams 'bachelor for life'."

"Nah, dat's just the fungus on that pile of plates begging for release," Rocco quipped, pointing to a mess of old dishes on one end of the coffee table. They could hear Joker snickering in the direction of the kitchen, and when he came back to them with a meat cleaver in hand, walking with a carefree spring in his step, he pointed the square end at Rocco.

"That's pretty good, Rocco, pretty good, heh heh! You see? You're finally learning about comedy! Now," Joker said, adjusting his collar with his free hand. "Get his arm on there and hold him." Bobby yelped and struggled, considerably more built for combat than these two, but lacking the kind of devotion to training that he could have used to get free. Rocco pistol-whipped him to get him still, staring desperately up at Joker.

"Please, Mr. J, what's this about? I didn't do nothin', I never skimmed!"

"That's not what this is about," Joker rasped softly, eyes narrowing, "and you know it." He took from one of his coat pockets a pair of black plastic zip ties, setting them carefully on the floor next to Rocco before stepping back to where Bobby could look up at him. The Joker then snatched Bobby's cell phone from the arm of his recliner and dialed 911, without hitting 'Send'. "Bobby, I know you've been a very naughty boy."

"Please," Bobby stammered, trying to pull away from the toughs.

"I know you tried talking Harley into doing dirty, dirty things with you. I know when she told you to get lost, you tried convincing her with some pinching and grabbing, until she kicked the crap out of you."

"Mr. Joker, please, I was just foolin' around, honest," Bobby said.

"Ties on his wrists," Joker snarled, and Rocco and Vince sprang into action, using the zip ties to crank down on Bobby's wrists, then holding his arms out on the coffee table.

"Dear God, no!"

"This will teach you to keep your hands to yourself," the Joker shouted, laughing maniacally as he hefted the cleaver high and brought it crashing down on Bobby's hands, just below the zip ties. The squelch of blood and snap of ones was deafening, as were Bobby's howls of horror, but Rocco and Vince held steady as Joker hacked twice more to cut the hands free. He dropped the cleaver and hit 'Send' on the phone. "If you live, you'll not soon forget this lesson," he quipped playfully, laughing as he led his thugs out of the apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

Detective Sean Marker surveyed the collection of Henshaw's hands into a cooler for possible reattachment, knowing full well that such would be impossible. The lifetime criminal was lucky to have not bled out, but the stumps of his arms had been hacked out of true, the weapon, a meat cleaver, now being bagged.

"I'll be right back in," he told the crime scene techs. He nipped out into the hallway, lit a cigarette, and exhaled a plume to his left, directly into the face of the man he'd known would be there. "You're either slipping, or you don't give much of a tin shit about subtlety anymore," he said.

"Henshaw used to work for the Joker," the Batman rasped. "You knew I'd have to come see this for myself."

"Well, laughing man did just blow the coop a couple hours ago," said Marker, tapping ashes on the hallway floor. His stocky frame belied the gentleness of his smooth voice, a tone which had always made people stop and listen. "Figure it's natural he'd come gather his boys. You think maybe Henshaw turned him down?"

"No," Batman said, eyes narrowing. He swooped around Marker into the apartment, looking at the scene. "This was something else altogether. What, I don't know yet. I'll have to talk to Henshaw."

"You'll get a chance," said Marker, following him inside after stamping out his smoke. "He had a few unregistered weapons and a treasure trove of crank in his bedroom. We'll be holding him at Gotham General after they do what they can for him." Marker shook his head and looked down at the bloody coffee table. "Makes you wonder about some folks, don't it?" But when he looked for the vigilante for a response, no one was there. He sighed. "Typical."

In his years fighting against the Joker, Batman had come to appeciate the sophistication of some of his tropes and behaviors. There was usually a strange, bent kind of logic to Joker's movements and activities, but every now and again, an incident like this put him right back to where he always wound up, baffled and slowly building to anger. The only other member of his rogues' gallery who made him nearly so confused was Crane, and then usually because of his various toxins.

But at least the Scarecrow was methodical, pattern-driven. This brutality seemed utterly random. Though serving as financial bookkeeper for Joker's outfit, Henshaw had never been accused of bilking or skimming, and when he worked for the clown, he never betrayed his allegiance. Bobby Henshaw was a pro. There shouldn't be any reason for this to have happened to him.

Crouched on the edge of a rooftop in Gotham's lower east side, the vigilante hooked a rapelling line into the brick and swung down through a small ventilation access into the Laugh Factory. It was an old combination joke shop and comedy club, and had served as the Joker's hideout several times over the years. There had been men moving around out front and inside, and he assumed it was once more the base for the Clown Prince of Crime.

Navigating through the old ductwork, Batman worked his way to the managerial office grate, looking down at a desk cluttered with all manner of gag props and papers. A portly black man in a thick blue cable knit sweater sat behind it, puffing on a cigar. There was a knock at the office door, and the man looked up. "Come on in," he said.

A mousy man in glasses and white button shirt over faded khakis came in. "Hey Tim," he said, smiling. "Just wanted to let you know the guys are here to clear out all the old inventory."

"Good," said Tim, the manager. He looked around and visibly shivered. "I know we got a deal on this place, but damned if it don't feel haunted. Like someone's watching me."

"Well, you know that lunatic, the Joker, used to use this place as a hideout."

"I know," said Tim. "That's why the price was so low." Batman didn't need to hear any more; someone was going to now run a legitimate business out of the place, so he had no need to be there. He made his way back up to the roof, grumbling. He peered out over the city, eyes narrowed.

"Where are you," he whispered.

Rocco parked the SUV and killed the engine, telling Vince to grab the food while he went to the rear door and opened it for Joker. The madman stepped out, sipping his soda, and looked around. "Never thought it'd come to this," he said. "Suburbia, yeech."

"Miss Harley thought it'd be a smart move this time around," Rocco said, leading the way along a narrow gravel walkway to the front porch in the dark. "It's actually kinda nice, if you can stomach the whole cookie cutter look of the neighborhood." He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and handed them back to his boss. "You should go through first, sir. She's been itching to see you again."

"Thank you, Rocco," said Joker, handing the pudgy thug his empty cup in exchange. He unlocked the front door and stepped into an entryway that looked positively domesticated. He cringed. As he wiped off his feet on a rough green rug, he heard movement down the hallway, accompanied by the jangle of bells. He felt himself smiling again, a softer one than he normally wore.

Dressed in her black and red court jester's costume, face painted white with a domino eye mask over her eyes, Harley Quinn shuffled out of an archway on the right side of the hall, eyes wide, bright smile lighting her features. "Puddin'?"

"Honey, I'm hooooome," he called out, arms held out for her. She squeaked excitedly and ran down the hall, leaping into his arms as if this were a carefully choreographed routine. He caught her without any effort, letting her nuzzle against his neck, giving her a squeeze with his hands.

"Oh, Mistah J, it's so good to have you back," she said, peppering his neck and cheek with little kisses. He gingerly set her on her feet, and she took his hand, guiding him down the hallway. "And good timing, too! I just finished a fresh batch of cookies!" Joker looked back over his shoulder at Rocco and Vince, who each gave him a hand wiggle to imply the goodies were okay, if not spectacular. The thugs sighed as Harley led the boss around a corner into the kitchen, kicking off their shoes and heading for the living room. Harley leaned out into the hall, the tassles of her jester's cap dangling down. "You boys put your shoes up right," she asked innocently. Rocco quickly stooped down to straighten them up, heels against the wall atop a brown mat. "Very good."

The two men eased into the quaint little living room, tuning into the 11 o'clock news, almost over now. Rocco settled into one of two armchairs, Vince stretched out on the couch. Rocco loosened his belt and sipped the last of his soda from his take-out cup.

"So, how long you figure until the boss draws down the heat on this joint," Vincent asked quietly. Rocco let out a little burp and undid the top button of his shirt. "Can't figure it'll be too long. He can't sit around here and play house wit' her forever." Rocco was a man who, upon initial and even second glance, would never strike anyone as swift, athletic, or even all that tough. But he sprang up from his seat and cuffed Vince across the face with a resounding slap that rocked the other man all the way down to his toes. Vince put his hand to hi cheek, mouth agape, arms and legs crunched up defensively as Rocco barred his teeth at him.

"You don't talk about the boss and Miss Harley like dat," he snarled. "You wanna disrespect someone around here, give somebody shit, you do it to me, understand? They took us in, give us work, let us stay with them without charging us a dime out of our cut, ever. Open your mouth like that again," he hissed, sauntering back over to his chair, "and I'll ask them to can your ass."

Vince muttered something darkly under his breath, but the two men remained in silence, watching as the late night movie came on. Joker and Harley came through a few minutes in, she leading him by the hand towards the stairway leading up to the second floor.

"You boys behave yourselves and don't stay up too late," Harley said amiably. Joker let go of her hand and she gave him a curious look.

"Just need a word with these two, sweetie, up in a minute," he assured her. She gave him a wink and bounced upstairs, the madman watching her bottom and hips roll pleasantly along side to side. "Mmm-hmm. Boys, do us a favor and don't come upstairs for a while. It might be a smidge noisy for a bit." Rocco grinned lasciviously up t his boss.

"Gonna play charades, right boss? Heh heh." Joker chuckled with him and dashed up the stairs, out of sight. Vince looked over, said nothing, and got up. "Where you going?"

"I'm calling dibs on the bedroom down here," Vince said, leaving Rocco alone in the living room. The heavier-set thug nipped upstairs for a minute, changing into sweatpants and a tee shirt for the night while trying to ignore the moans coming from the next room over. He quickly headed back dowstairs and stretched out on the couch, falling asleep ten minutes later while the late night movie played.


End file.
